


Kylo Ren But He's... Rasputin

by supersoakerx



Series: Kylo Ren But He's... [2]
Category: Anastasia (1997), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Attempted Murder, Dream Sex, Dreams, F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Horror Elements, Reanimation, Supernatural Elements, Undead, Wargs, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: “Kylo Ren But He’s…”is a series of independent, standalone works of roughly 2k words where I take the character of ‘Kylo Ren’ and put him (or a version of him) in ridiculous AUs because I am a nutcase.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You, Rasputin/Reader, Rasputin/You
Series: Kylo Ren But He's... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027468
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Kylo Ren But He's... Rasputin

**Author's Note:**

> **In this story** : Kylo Ren But He’s… RENsputin. Reader is descended from royalty, ancestry long forgotten after two world wars and the turn of the century, until mystical circumstances bring an old enemy to the fore.
> 
> **Warnings** : supernatural/horror(?) themes, reanimation/undead, headaches and migraines, warg-ing out, dream-invasion sorcery but make it sexy, wet dreams, attempted dream murder, Reader lives, a good time was had by all!
> 
> Credits for everything go of course to Don Bluth and Gary Goldman, directors of Anastasia (1997) on which this absolute bullshit is based Lord forgive me.

The bat shrieks in the dark cavernous depth, its echo shattering the silence that had held here for years.

Grey mist rises, seeping from the shadows and crawling with menace across the craggy, earthen ground.

The bat screeches again, awoken by forces from the beyond, and calls out for its Master.

The mist thickens and shrouds the stony bedrock, and begins to creep up the densely packed earth and jagged rockface that marked the borders of the sunken cave.

A low, ancient rumble trembles the rugged ground, followed by a deep, pained groan of anguish that sounds less than human.

The bat cries and squeals in answer, shrill and staccato, and starts to beat its wings.

Rocks fall to the ground and dust fills the air as the walls of the cave shake. Amidst the cacophonous screeching of the bat, a rotted hand shoves upward from the ground, splitting the rocky earth in numerous rippling cracks.

The hand—the matted collection of bones and decomposed muscle and tendon—flexes against nothing in the cold cavern devoid of air and light and life. Around the corrupted flesh, ribbons of dripping crimson and glittering midnight-blue swirl in black mist.

A dark voice laughs.

**XXXX**

The train pulls slowly from the platform with a loud metallic squeal—you see it on the peoples’ faces, how they cringe and grimace as the piercing shriek of wheel on track assaults their ears.

You settle back into your book as the train peels away from the station, but focusing on the small text proves difficult. Letters and words blur on the page and your brain seems to forget how to register them.

You fold your book closed and slip it back into your bag. The dull headache that you’d woken up with flickers back to life as the train rumbles on, now with an unexplained sense of unease that sinks heavily in your gut.

Nervously you toy with the necklace that hangs around your neck. You’d already taken the last of the ibuprofen you kept in your bag. This would have to wait.

You make ready your things and try not to focus on the pain behind your eye, near your temple, arcing through the middle of your brain.

Your stop is next, and you have paracetamol at home. You’ll be fine, as soon as you get back there. You’ll take some painkillers, drink some water, block out the light and sleep for an hour or so. That’s all you need, you’re sure of it.

It’ll be fine, and thinking about it will just make it worse.

You grip the support bar as you stand before the sliding doors of the train carriage, swaying with the rocking of the train. The inertia does nothing to ease the nausea, but you’re so close to home. You can handle another minute or two.

Looking out the rounded rectangular window you see—how unusual, for this time of day—a single bat flying across the cloudless late afternoon sky.

**XXXX**

The sorcerer stands in the centre of the cave, his sinewy digits gently curling as he wields his magic. Mist churns around him like a cloak of blackest night, mingling with dark streaks of glinting blue and twinkling green.

Slowly, with closed eyes, he tilts his head and rolls his neck in slow, serpentine circles, whispering incantations in a forgotten tongue. The grey ligaments of his dead muscles stitch themselves together and latch onto his brittle bones: the marrow and cartilage growing stronger, bonding his form whole again. Blue ribbons of magic bring flaps of mangled, gangrenous skin to seal together, bloating and blistering and bleeding at the seams, until swirling green enchantments heal and bind his flesh together.

Glossy, staticky, sticky tendrils of thaumaturgy eddy around him, and as he performs this dark miracle his eyelids flick open on a deep, wheezing gasp. Colour returns to his white irises before the blind orbs roll up into his head—and he sees through his warg’s eyes.

The sorcerer sees a locomotive, grey and full of grey people.

Grey and unremarkable. Grey and unmemorable.

All of them, but one.

The bat circles and swoops to a higher vantage, and she’s clearer to him now. The sorcerer clenches his fists: long, untamed nails bite into his skin, deep and hard enough to draw blood—yet he does not feel it. “Her,” he croaks, discovering his voice as if for the first time, as sparkling rose-hued purple, shot through with gold, surrounds a woman standing near the doors of one of the carriages.

“Bartok,” he purrs, and the bat caws in the sky, gliding lower on a downdraft. “The line was lost,” the sorcerer whispers incredulously into the darkness, seeing as the woman places a hand to her forehead and winces.

He stretches his jaw as new teeth grow beneath his gums, the hardened enamel breaking and pushing through flesh to settle in their rightful places in his mouth. “Follow her, Bartok,” he says, lifting his palms to slide them sensuously down the sides of his still-repairing face. “Follow the girl.”

**XXXX**

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you swallow down the pain-relieving tablets with water. You’d done your best to make yourself as comfortable as possible—windows locked and latched, blinds and curtains drawn closed, the door to your bedroom shut and a spare blanket buttressed against the gap between door and floor.

Nothing and no one is getting in here, especially not today’s arch nemesis: beams of bright white light.

You set an alarm for two hours, and flip your phone face-down on your bed-side table.

With an overwhelming sense of relief, you sink down into your bed. You rest your head, find that comfortable spot, and wrap yourself in just enough blankets to be cosy.

You take one, deep, relaxing breath—and you’re out.

**XXXX**

“Come, Bartok,” says Ren.

His face and form are lit by that same gold-flecked, pinkish-plum light. It forms a ring, sparking and zapping against itself, sending curls of rose and lavender mist wafting into the dark.

He stands, staring at the projection in the centre of the sorcerous circle.

A woman, sleeping.

A woman, dreaming.

You.

His rich brown eyes glow unnaturally. His irises, set in bloodshot, jaundiced sclera, are streaked bronze with the gold, pink, and purple of his spell. Though his longer beard and shoulder-length hair are greying, and his pale skin is subtly tinted greenish-grey, there lurks a ferocious resolve in his unrelenting orbs.

The sorcerer Ren stretches his arm towards the image of you. He twists his wrist and curls his fingers, seeing more of you, and the question is answered: a timeworn stone hanging from a dainty chain around your neck.

This old magic is what called to him. An archaic charm on a forgotten relic. “Foolish child.” None had warned you, it seems. The enchantment sustained a centuries-long bond. Brought you to him. Brought him back to life, or back to something akin to living.

The bat returns.

Ren closes his eyes, and looks into your mind.

**XXXX**

It’s a beautiful, sunny day. The stream babbles gently by. Children laugh and play in the park. Birds chirp and tweet in the trees. Couples ride their bikes over the bridge, and down the path.

Your friends—well, not _your_ friends, but your _friends_ —come up beside you. One hands you an ice cream. One tells a joke. You all laugh.

A man sits by a tree, reading a book. A dog pads over and drops a ball at his side. The man—dark hair, dark eyes, strong nose, pink lips—scratches the dog and picks up the ball. He tosses it a great distance, and smiles as the dog goes bounding off in search of it.

The ball lands at your feet.

You crouch down and pick it up, and the dog nuzzles into you affectionately.

“That’s Ox.”

You look up and it’s the man, from the tree. Sunlight shines all over him. His light grey-button up, gridded by thin blue lines, looks soft and comfy. He smells like fresh-baked muffins and hot, gooey chocolate chip cookies. He doesn’t tell you, but you know his name is Ren.

“Wanna take a walk with me?”

He takes your hand and your friends fall away. You hold Ox’s leash and Ren links your arm with his. He’s warm. You walk into a forest together.

Leaves crunch beneath your feet. It smells like pine and earth and wood and soil. Ox falls away. You stumble on a stray branch, and Ren catches you. Your ankle throbs.

“Watch your step.”

He smiles at you and nestles a violet to your ear, and traces along your jaw to your chin with the back of his finger. Pain flares in your ankle.

“Can you walk?”

You shake your head. Ren crowds you against a tree. He kisses you: his lips are soft and his mouth is warm. He tangles his fingers in your hair.

You wake with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. You check your phone: you’ve been napping for twenty minutes. Your heart pounds, but your head is clear. You try to move your ankle, but it’s tender, somehow.

You must have bumped it in your sleep.

**XXXX**

In the dark of the night a single candle burns in your open window. It’s hot out; the lights are off. You dance [to the music](https://youtu.be/yGl7errjHWk) on your record player—until a big gust of wind picks up, and the flame catches on the curtains.

Your apartment—well, not _your_ apartment, but your _apartment_ —is on fire.

Everything glows yellow and orange. You breathe in smoke. You’ve never felt hotter, like every part of your body is layered with multiple sunburns, even your eyeballs. You breathe in smoke. You can’t find the door. Something whooshes and crashes. You can’t make your way to the window you know is open. You breathe in smoke. You can’t breathe.

Someone picks you up, holding under your knees and around your back. He cradles the back of your head into his neck with a gloved hand. His uniform is rough, yellow and black. He smells like ash and sweat.

“Hold on to me.”

Ren. You wrap your arms around his neck.

“Floor’s coming down.”

He races down the stairs. You’re outside your apartment, and his helmet falls away.

“You’re safe now.”

Your lips meet in a forceful kiss. You moan into his mouth, fear and adrenalin pumping through your veins, and quickly changing into something else.

You’re in his truck, straddling his lap and kissing down his throat to the dip of his black vee-neck. His hands squeeze your ass. You unzip his fly to palm his erection and he moans your name.

“Do you want me?”

You suck a bruise into his neck, nibbling on the soft skin and strong muscle. You sigh into his ear when he dips two thick digits into your pussy. He fingers you deep, pumping a rhythm that makes your thighs shake around his.

“Cum on my hand.”

You blink wake, heat pounding between your legs in delicious waves.

A soft glow fills the room, and a chilling fear runs down your spine, extinguishing the pleasure in your core.

You’d fallen asleep reading, and the candle on your bed-side table still burns brightly, but there lingers a faint smell of smoke, as if it had been blown out.

**XXXX**

Your husband—well…

Ren walks from the shower with a crisp, fluffy, white hotel towel wrapped low on his hips.

You lounge on the bed, your white silk robe gently falling open, with only a lace garter stretched around your thigh underneath.

“Hey, baby.”

He crawls up the bed and pulls your garter down your leg with his teeth. You card your fingers through his hair and he nuzzles into the apex of your thighs. He licks you out until his lips and chin are glistening, until you’ve made a mess of yourself, until you beg to cum so desperately that your voice cracks.

He doesn’t let you.

“Want to show you off, baby.”

You’re outside. In the distance, behind the other high rises, the sun is setting. Waves lap at the shore. Palm trees blow in the gentle evening breeze.

Ren kisses up your spine until you lean forward on the balcony railing. He presses close to your body, and slips his long, thick, hard dick into your waiting pussy.

“Mmff, baby, take my cock.”

He rolls his hips upward, setting a vigorous pace as he curls into you with long, deep, full strokes. Your moans ring out into the dusk air, shameless and immodest. He grunts into your ear and your pleasure mounts.

People are watching you.

He groans your name.

They hear him. They know who you are, now.

“I’m gonna cum. Fuck. Cum on my dick, baby.”

Warm orgasmic bliss floods your body as if Ren has flicked a simple switch. Your cunt pulses and your clit twitches.

Ren grunts and sighs when he cums, burying himself as far inside you as the tip of his twitching cock can reach. He puts all of his weight on you, panting as he recovers.

“Oh, baby. I love you.”

Before you can even smile the balustrade railing snaps.

You plummet and scream, but a strong hand catches you. Ren pulls you to safety, drawing you into his arms.

You wake, standing at the top of the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: the song playing in the second dream is ‘Love is a Bitch’ by Two Feet – listen on the YT: https://youtu.be/yGl7errjHWk


End file.
